Varric and Death
by Koboldlord
Summary: Varric Tethras, dwarf, merchant, liar, story-teller and second son, finds himself in an interesting situation with an interesting companion; a place he can't lie his way out of and a situation quite unlike any he's ever experienced. Post DA 2, oneshot. T for mild language. M!Hawke and Isabela camio


An: Hawke left purposefully non-descriptive, though I used the details from my various play-throughs I hopefully left things vague enough to be enjoyed by all.

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"Hello?" Varric Tethras, second son, dwarf merchant prince and story-teller called out, his voice echoing eerily in the empty tavern. "Edwina? Corvis? Isabela?" He paused for a moment, giving those individuals each a moment to respond. None did. "Hawke?" He called out loudly, "Hey Hawke, you owe me a pint!"

Hawke didn't respond. In fact, the Hanged Man remained dead silent. Sweat begun to trickle down the dwarf's neck and his palms tingled beneath his supple leather gloves. Reaching his hand back, he brushed his fingers along Bianca's grip, drawing comfort and courage from her quiet strength.

"Easy girl," he told the crossbow gently, touching her trigger slightly. "We're going to look around, that's all." Yanking Bianca from his back, Varric advanced cautiously, glancing about the darkened room. The normally cheerfully roaring fire in the corner was a few smouldering embers. The lanterns were all dark and the air felt cold. Even through the thickness of his greatcoat, the dwarf felt and unearthly chill.

The bar itself was a darkened mass, looming ominously like a crouching dragon ready to devour him. Like a Deep Roads entrance, the back passage to the guest rooms stared towards him, almost dooming him with their blackness. He felt no desire to explore those normally cheery passages, at least, not alone.

Holding Bianca out in front of him, loaded and primed, the liar approached the bar. At the very least, the oddly empty Hanged Man should still have something left to drink. He needed to calm his nerves. Shockingly, nothing attempted to disembowel him as he approached the counter. The only sound he could hear was the hammering of his heart and the sharp rasp of his breath.

Behind the counter, much to his delight, was a bottle of Antivan brandy and two small tin cups. Literally nothing else remained. Puzzled by this, the Dwarf took both cups and set them on the table. He stored Bianca back in her place and poured the first cup.

It was then that he noticed the stranger.

He was tall and gaunt, his face hidden entirely behind a black robe. In what appeared to be a skeletal hand, the figured clutched a large scythe. He sat completely silent and motionless, blending in nearly perfectly with the shadows of the tavern. If he hadn't looked up from pouring the brandy, it was very possible Varric never would have noticed him.

The liar's heart stopped at the sight of the robed figure. He knew the myths of course, everyone did, but, being a story-teller himself, he figured them to be nothing more than fanciful additions. Little tweaks given by the author for added memorability. To think the spirit of Death actually existed… it was something that never crossed his mind.

Still, if it were true, that would explain his current situation quite a bit.

Forcing a smile onto his handsome face, Varric met the figure head on. "Hello," he greeted him warmly; arms wide open with a welcoming gesture. "Do you want a drink? I'm heaving one." Without looking to see if the Reaper had nodded, Varric filled the other cup.

"I'm not here for socialization," the hooded figure responded. His voice, while certainly melancholy in inflection was remarkably sweet. The story-teller had always imagined the spirit of death to have a scratchy, rasping voice. Without making any threatening gestures, the figure got up from his seat and sat across from Varric at the bar.

Even with the cloaked being sitting on a stool directly opposed to him, the dwarf still couldn't make out his face. One thing was certain however, the hands were obviously bone. After resting his scythe against the counter-top, the spirit leaned forward. "I don't wish to alarm you, Mr Tethras, but…"

Varric cut him off, "Don't tell me, how much did I have to drink last night?" He said, with a half-hearted smile, trying not to take the situation as seriously as he felt it should.

"You're dying, Mr Tethras."

The words struck him like a Qunari warhammer. Instantly, he sought to deny it. "Can't be," he responded chipper, "If I'm dying, how can I be standing here behind this bar?" He took a long draft of brandy, before refilling the tin cup. "I mean, If I were really dying, I wouldn't be able to drink that."

The figure shook his head mournfully. "How did you get here, Mr Tethras? What route did you take?" It was a simple questions, honest in its sadness.

Varric was terrified to discover he couldn't remember.

There was a brilliant white flash and, for an instant, Varric felt burning pain in his chest. Suddenly, he was laying on the ground, eyes upward, blood everywhere. Hawke was looking down at him, saying words he couldn't hear. His tattoos were blood splattered and his dark beard damp with tears. Isabela was glancing around, face bleeding from several cuts, eyes watering. Varric wanted to say something, tell them he was alright, but he couldn't.

Suddenly the light flashed again and he was back with Death in the tavern.

The story-teller clutched his head with both hands, falling forward onto the bar. "What…what in Andraste's holy flaming ass was that?" He muttered, shaking himself fiercely. The physical pain in his chest was gone, but phantom agony still lingered.

Death picked up the tin cup and looked down at the brandy. He swirled the glass casually. "You aren't quite as dead as I thought," he answered, his tone sounding faintly hopeful.

Varric was quiet for a moment. The inner turmoil of knowing something was happening to him, something he couldn't lie or shoot his way out was very distressing. He took another drink, trying to ignore the snake of fear coiling in his gut. "How did it happen?" He asked the spirit, "If it even happened at all and I'm not just dreaming this up."

The liar held up a single finger, "Was it the Carta? Blood mages? Or something seemingly heroic?" After all, if he was going to die violently, not that he'd enjoy going out that way, at the very least it should be something memorable. He leaned forward on the counter, trying desperately to get a glimpse at this mysterious stranger who seemed almost sad to have to take his spirit away.

"Sadly not," Death answered, his face still hidden in complete blackness. "Just a pack of bandits charging an illegal toll. You, Hawke, and his pirate lover weren't taking any of it so," he paused, gazing down into the cup before him. "After suitably insulting the bandits, battle was joined. One of them had a crossbow." The figure looked Varric full in the face and even then his apperance was masked in shadow. "It seems your luck has run out. For what it's worth, I'm truly sorry."

For some reason, Varric believed him.

Another brilliant flash of white blinded him, driving the darkened tavern away. He was laying on the ground again, two crossbow bolts sticking stright out of his abdomen, fine coat sticky with hot blood. Hawke had a potion in his hand, rapidly uncorking the bottle. "Hang on Varric," he ordered sharply, his voice straining with emotion, "Don't die on me you selfish son of a bitch!"

Isabela dashed over, swords placed back in their sheathes. "I wish Anders were here," she stated, her tone noticably flat, as if trying to stifle emotion she clearly felt but didn't want Hawke to see.

Even in his pained, semi-conscious state, Isabela once again impressed Varric. Hawke was, while a good chap, by far the weakest of the three emotionally. She was being strong for Hawke's sake, masking the sorrow he knew she was feeling to give him hope. If the story-teller lived, he'd be sure to convey that respect.

"Well, he's not! He made his bed," Hawke responded, trying to force the potion down Varric's throat. The dwarf desperately wanted to swallow the healing liquid, to feel the cool rush down his throat, but he couldn't. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, feeling fat, almost chocking him. "I don't regret what was done!"

Hawke's defensive reply was vicious, but understandable; the wound from Ander's actions was still raw. "Where's Bethany?" The rivani enquired, ignoring Hawke's vicious response, "She could patch this up almost as well as Anders ever could!" Varric felt an emotionally pain to match the physical one at the mention of sunshine. Had she also been hurt? Had she even been there? He couldn't remember.

"I don't know," Hawke responded bitterly, throwing the useless potion bottle away. "We need to find her."

The light flashed again and Varric was back in the Hanged Man.

Death's posture was sympathetic. "You have good friends." The spirit leaned back on the stool, skeletal hands folded. "I've escorted many folk, good and evil, to their final judgement but rarely have I seen such devotion." He paused, looking around the darkened tavern. "It is touching."

"Not going to argue there," the dwarf quipped, still trying to find a levity he didn't feel. "It's my skin on the line." He finished this third glass of brandy, its warmth still pleasant despite the circumstances. "Hey, spirit," he asked, launching a question of his own for once, trying to get back in the "Varric", collected, confident, rogue head space, "Why here?" He gestured around at the darkened shadow of the Hanged Man. "Why does the afterlife's waiting room look like my tavern?" He looked about again, "It's no section of the Fade I've ever seen." He glanced down, "Not that I've seen many," he added under his breath.

"Is it not obvious?" Death responded, both politely and firmly. "The 'Waiting room' is a reflection of one's home. Not the place that has been labelled such, but the place in Thedas they truly call home, where they belong." He glanced around the Hanged Man with an obvious fondness. "This place is where you belong Varric, it is a place of friends, fellowship and songs. I cannot truly think of a happier place to wait."

The liar accepted that answer. Images dancing through his mind; of many stories told to wide-eyed children, of games won and lost, of mugs toasted and embraces given. A sense of peace settled over him. He didn't want to go. But if he had too, he'd go knowing he'd lived a full and happy life.

"What are we waiting for?" He asked Death, smiling at the spirit across the bar. "I've gotten my head wrapped around being dead, and I've come to grips with it as best I can. Aren't you going to take me away now?"

The spirit shook his head. "Not yet, Varric. There's still a spark of life left in you; your friends want to coax it into a flame. They might just succeed."

The white flashed again and Varric was back in Thedas.

He was on Hawke's back, slung gently over his friend's shoulder. The bolts in his stomach had been removed and he'd been bandaged decently enough. Isabela was vaguely visible to his front, her lover's short bow clutched in her hands, his quiver resting on her back.

Both of Hawk'es hands were gripping the dwarf tightly, trying to steady him as they ran. The story teller didn't know where they were going, but he knew, wherever it was, it was certainly his only chance.

"Hawke." The dwarf surprised himself a bit, as he ground that word out from his sandpaper throat. "Iss gonna be okay, Hawke…"

The man didn't stop running. His tone was just as flat as Isabela's had been earlier; he seemed almost in a state of shock. "Varric, I've lost too many people. I will not lose you. Now shut up and maintain your strength."

The dwarf patted Hawke's leg in affirmative, or attempted too. In his semi-concious state movement seemed impossible. Another flash of light sent him back to the tavern.

"They'll take you to the Wicked Grace." Death stated authoritatively, still holding his tin mug of brandy in his bone hand.

"Isabela's ship." Varric remembered that. She'd been so proud, they'd all been. Hawke most of all, beaming a bright smile, teeth shining behind his beard as he presented it to her. "Stolen it from an Orlesian pirate crew," he'd smirked, "Don't worry, they're still very much alive to tell everyone."

"That's great Hawke! Well played!" Varric had said, clapping his human friend as far up the back as his stubby arms could reach. Isabela just stood there, staring. She'd cried a bit before wrapping Hawke in a warm embrace, thanking him in simple, honest terms.

Varric himself had chocked up at the touching scene, Bethany had been a mess, and even Fenris seemed moved. They'd had some adventures on that ship, enough to fill the pages of a hundred books. The dwarf thought of each in turn, rather fondly, before resting his hand on his chin. "I suppose we wait."

Death nodded his affirmative. The two sat there for an unknowable length of time. Without warning, Death stiffed suddenly, hand gripping his scythe for support. He looked at Varric for a moment, and the story-teller could swear he smiled beneath his hood. "I think you'll be alright." Death told him warmly. The spirit sat still for a moment, before offering the dwarf his hand, "When next we meet, you will be joining me." The way the words were spoken was clearly not a threat, nor a malicious promise. Simply a factual statement.

Varric took that hand and shook it. "I certainly will." He smiled at the spirit. "Oddly enough, it's been a pleasure." He didn't get to hear Death's response, as one final burst of brilliant light sent him back to Thedas.

The setting had changed, he was laying in a bed, sheets pulled up to his chin, judging by the gentle rocking of the room, on board a ship of some kind. His chest no longer burned, instead replaced with a dull pain, he'd been wrapped with bandages, fresh ones judging from how clean they were and, perhaps the most shocking thing of all, he was alive. He was in extreme pain, but alive none the less.

Glancing around the room, eyes still blurry, the liar tried to figure out where exactly he was. His gaze fell upon a familiar form, dressed in the robes of a Circle Mage. She was a small, slight, woman, yet a fire burning in her young eyes suggested nothing would take her without a fight. "Bethany?" Varric rumbled, forcing the words though a rough throat.

"Varric?" She gasped, shocked to see him recover, "Varric! Thank the Maker!" She squealed with joy, wrapping the dwarf in a bear hug that rivalled even one of Hawke's jolly embraces.

"Woah, easy on the goods, sunshine," Varric responded cheerily, wincing a little as the younger Hawke jostled his injured stomach. "Now, do I have a story for you..."

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AN: I know there isn't really a Grim Reaper myth in Thedas but I've always wanted to write a short piece involving Grims and this story popped into my head fully formed and begging to be told.


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